


nous qui ne mourrons pas

by takingoffmyshoes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Post-3x06: Death of a Hero, backed by shoddy medical research, because come on are we watching the same show or what, if I say this is for whumptober will you forgive me for being an h/c slut, mentions of d'Artagnan/Constance, mentions of the possibility of d'Artagnan/Athos, minor medical stuff, or will that just make it worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 20:06:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16166045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes
Summary: It’s a long journey home, especially after the day they’ve had.  Set against “Death of a Hero.”





	nous qui ne mourrons pas

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory first-fic impulse post! shout-out to Malin and Kat for (re)watching the show with me and encouraging shouting and flailing and critical character analyses across time zones, and shout-out to Maria for all the shit she's gonna give me for this.

Perhaps a mile from the mausoleum, the rush of the fight fades as abruptly as it had swept over him; for a moment, the world goes grey and muffled, and he feels himself moving but doesn’t know in which direction. Not that it particularly matters, because all of them would probably hurt about the same. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder, then, digging painfully into bruises, and a voice at his side, and...

 

The world comes back slowly, piecemeal and confused. He’s lying on his back, and his arms are...somewhere, presumably, but won’t lift when he means them to. Something is tapping dully against his cheek and he’d like to swat it away, but he can’t, so he turns his head instead. It doesn’t do much. He feels the creak of leather against his cheek, then the tapping is back, more insistent than before. 

“—happened?” says a voice somewhere far away, and oh, good, he can hear again. 

“Not sure,” says a closer voice. “We’ve all had rather a difficult day, haven’t we? Come on, d’Artagnan, open your eyes. I know you can hear me.”

It’s Athos.

For Athos, all things are possible.

He opens his eyes.

“There you are,” Athos murmurs. “That’s it, take your time.” It feels like minutes before he’s finally able to focus, but it’s probably just seconds. Just loud, pounding heartbeats. Athos brushes a stray bit of hair out of his eyes.

“What happened?” he manages, at last seeing Athos’ face clearly, if upside-down. He hadn’t had time to ask, before.

“You fainted,” Athos says, still in that soft, low murmur. “Made it half off your horse before I caught you.”

He shakes his head, and Athos’ hands move immediately to still it. “No, I mean—” He pauses, licks his dust-dry lips and squints up at him. “What happened to your _face?”_

Beneath the blood and bruises, Athos quirks a tiny smile.

 

Getting back on his horse is far more challenging than such a long-practiced action has any right to be, but he manages. His ribs are shrieking with every breath and his head is pounding with every heartbeat, and every inch of him feels battered, but they are musketeers – _he_ is a musketeer, and today even death bowed to his will. Pain will not merit a second thought.

“You all right?” Porthos mutters once they start up again, pulling his horse level with d’Artagnan’s. Athos had sent Aramis and the cadets on ahead to accompany the king back to the palace, leaving himself and Treville with Porthos and d’Artagnan. Treville keeps shooting him poorly concealed glances from his other side, clearly expecting him to pitch out of the saddle a second time, but d’Artagnan won’t give him the satisfaction. 

“Are you?” d’Artagnan tosses back, wrapping the reins tighter around his fingers. Porthos is looking a little grey himself, and not from the dust – that had all been pretty well shaken off by the frantic ride and the no less frantic fight. 

“Been better,” Porthos admits with a tight little shrug. “Been a lot worse, too.”

“We refused to die,” d’Artagnan reminds him, suddenly light and grinning with the giddiness of it.

“We refused to die,” Porthos agrees, grinning back. When he holds up his hand, d’Artagnan clasps it tightly, ignoring the ache in his shoulders. “Still wouldn’t say no to a good hot meal and two straight days of sleep, though.”

D’Artagnan laughs, then coughs. “Dust,” he chokes out when Porthos looks concerned, and takes the offered waterskin gratefully. It helps, though not for long. 

 

 

They ride hard back to Paris, even though it costs them. Porthos is coughing, now, too, and Athos is hunching slightly over what’s probably a set of spectacularly bruised ribs. Of the four of them, Treville is the only one not riding like a man twice his age, unhampered by injuries that go far deeper than the skin. Still, they straighten as they approach the palace, letting arms fall away from aching ribs and rolling back stiff shoulders. 

They keep up the facade until they reach Treville’s office, where they all drop heavily into chairs and wait for Aramis to join them. It’s nothing but bad news when he finally does, and Athos goes stalking off as soon as he can. Looking for a drink, likely, or looking for Sylvie. It shouldn’t feel worse, now that Athos looks to a person rather than to alcohol, but it does. Like they’ll never be enough for him. Like they never were.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder. Porthos. “Come on, then,” he says wearily. “Let’s get back to the garrison and see about my plan.”

“Your plan?” Treville asks.

“A good hot meal and two straight days of sleep.”

“I think I’ll trade the meal for another day of sleep, actually,” d'Artagnan admits. He’d felt bad as they were riding, but then he’d had a purpose. Now he feels terrible, and there's nothing to distract from the fact that the world’s going hazy again and he can’t quite get a deep enough breath to fill his lungs.

He...

“Hey. _Hey._ D’Artagnan.” Porthos is crouched in front of him, snapping his fingers. “You all right?”

D’Artagnan nods, not trusting his voice to be steady.

“Breathe,” Aramis says firmly, and puts his hands on his shoulders to guide him. “In and out, slowly, that's it.” 

The world comes back into focus. 

“Ready to go back?” Porthos asks. “We'll take it nice and slow, yeah?”

“Don't think I could go fast if I had to,” d'Artagnan agrees, and lets Porthos pull him up. He sees the wince, but it's too late to help it. 

Treville stands as well.

“I'll see you back,” he says. “Aramis, you'd better come, too. Their injuries should be seen to.”

 

It's a slow, painful trek to their horses, and by the end of it Treville is scrutinizing them critically. “Can you ride,” he asks, “or should I send for a cart?" It's only half a joke.

D'Artagnan makes it onto his horse purely by luck and miracles and the stubbornness of Gascogne, and Porthos is ever so carefully stretching his arms and back and eyeing the saddle with grim determination.

In unison, they turn to give Treville the same flat look.

Treville rolls his eyes and swings himself up into the saddle.

“Show-off,” mutters Porthos.

“Step one is getting on your horses,” Treville reminds them dryly.

D’Artagnan smirks.

“Step two is _staying_ on your horses,” Treville adds.

D’Artagnan scowls.

 

 

The cadets don't quite swarm them when they arrive back at the garrison, still too raw over the death of one of their own, but there are plenty of hands to help them down and plenty of shoulders to lean on as they make their way across the courtyard and up the steps. The journey from the palace had been made at a walk, but the ache is setting in swift and severe, and it hurts to breathe, and the dizziness is crowding closer.

“Constance is with the queen,” Treville says in his ear, appearing at his side out of nowhere, and silently replaces the cadet steering him towards his room. “I’ve sent for her, and for a palace physician as well, just in case.”

“Aramis?”

“He’s with Porthos.”

“Good,” he says, and stumbles. Treville curses and hauls him up again. 

“Just a few more steps now, come on. Almost there, that’s it.”

“I’m fine,” he tries to say, but his voice sounds very far away and his vision is tunneling out. Something soft bumps up against his knees, and Treville sits him down with a hand on his shoulder. Bed. His bed. His boots are tugged off, and there’s some more spinning and maneuvering until he’s finally lying down with a couple of pillows tucked beneath his head. 

“I’ll send Aramis up when he’s done seeing to Porthos,” Treville says. “Get some rest. You’ve done well.”

He manages to nod, and then he’s gone.

 

 

He wakes up coughing. 

Aramis is at his side in an instant, easing him up and splaying a hand on his back and his chest to brace him.

 _God, that hurts,_ is what he means to say, but all that comes croaking out is, “Hurts.” He lowers the hand he’d brought up instinctively to cover his mouth, and it’s flecked with red. His stomach drops. _“Aramis.”_

“I know, I know.” Aramis gets him lying back against the pillows – there's more of them now, enough to keep him almost upright – and wipes his lips and hand with a damp cloth. “It’s the explosion,” he explains. “Like getting kicked in the chest. I don’t think any ribs are broken, but there’s some blood in your lungs.”

He has a sudden, awful flashback to Treville, shot, lying on a table, and Lemay pounding a tube into his chest. 

“Just a little,” Aramis hurries to reassure him, “just a little. It’ll clear on its own, but you’ll be coughing for a few days, and sore for a couple of weeks. You’ll be up and about and stuck on light duty in no time.”

“Maybe not _no_ time,” d’Artagnan mutters. If he thinks about it, he can almost feel the rattle in his chest. He can certainly feel the grating pain with every inhale. “Porthos?”

“About the same. I think he got off a little easier than you, since he isn't quite as scrawny. He's coughing, but he's not having as much trouble breathing.”

“I'm not having trouble breathing,” he argues, deciding to let the other comment pass. 

“Why do you keep passing out, then?” 

He glares, but concedes the point. “I suppose I’ll be stuck in bed a while.”

Aramis nods. He looks tired, d’Artagnan realises. Hollowed out. He hadn’t really noticed earlier. “No exertions,” he agrees, without even a trace of innuendo. “Your lungs need to heal, and they can only do that if you rest.”

“Are you worried?”

Aramis picks up his hand and examines his fingernails, of all things. “Not yet,” he decides, with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

“Aramis.”

“You and Porthos were hurt, badly, and I wasn't there. Of course I'm worried. But you're both all right – or, you will be,” he corrects himself, “and that's all I can ask for. Porthos has new scars,” he adds softly. “I hadn't seen them yet.”

It's not just about today, then. It's not just today that they were hurt and Aramis wasn't there. 

“You're here now,” he reminds him, and squeezes Aramis’ hand. 

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Aramis seems to shake back into himself. “I am, however, sorry to have missed the sight of Athos sweeping you into his arms. I hear it was quite touching. Porthos in particular was extremely moved.”

“He would be. He knows it’ll never happen to him, so.” He coughs. “He has to live vicariously through me. Speaking of Athos, how is he?”

“Took a beating from Grimaud,” Aramis admits, and passes him the handkerchief. “He’ll be sore for a while, but no serious harm was done.”

“Has he come back to the garrison yet?”

“No, but I’m sure he’ll come and see you when he does. For now, you really do need to rest. Do you want help getting out of your clothes?” There's a tiny spark of playfulness that goes with it, and it's enough. 

“Well, if I do, I've certainly come to the right person.”

It takes a bit of work, but eventually d'Artagnan is in bed rather than on it, and wearing a clean shirt and a pair of old, soft trousers.

It's not his own shirt; Aramis raises an eyebrow when he sees. “Athos will notice,” he says mildly, but doesn't push. Constance will, too, but she understands, probably better than d'Artagnan does himself. 

Aramis tends to the cuts and abrasions on his face and neck and hands, none of which need stitching but all of which burn as he rinses them with wine and wipes them free of dirt and crusted blood. D'Artagnan slumps back against the pillows as he works, halfway to dozing, and is so far gone that he doesn't notice Aramis has finished until he's across the room with his hand on the door.

“Did Porthos tell you?” he asks, forcing his eyes open.

Aramis stills, and looks back. “Did he tell me what?”

“That we refused to die.”

Aramis’ eyes soften; he looks fond, finally, rather than worried. “You did. And I’m very, very grateful for it.”

“Later, will you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I already told you.”

“You told us some. Will you tell us the rest? When you’re ready?”

“Later,” Aramis agrees softly. “When I'm ready.”

 

 

Constance comes in a little while after, calls him a fool, then kisses his forehead and sits by the bed, stroking his hair until he falls asleep again. It doesn't take long. 

She's gone when the physician comes in. It's not Lemay, will never again be Lemay, but he seems gentle and knowledgeable and not overly pompous. He doesn't find anything wrong that Aramis hadn't already dealt with, and leaves not long after he arrives.

D'Artagnan sleeps.

 

 

He wakes up late the next morning to find Athos sprawled in the bedside chair with his feet propped up on the edge of the mattress, reading a book and looking utterly unconcerned with the vivid bruising staining most of his face. 

“I never said thank you,” d"Artagnan rasps, voice rough with sleep and coughing. Athos glances up over the top of his book and raises an eyebrow. “For coming after us. For digging us out. For not giving up on us.”

“Not for catching you when you fell off your horse?” Athos is laughing at him, with his even tone and his neutral expression, but it's familiar. Comforting.

“That, too. Constance?” 

“With the queen.”

“Good. She needs a friend, right now.”

“Are you all right?” Athos asks abruptly, closing his book with a soft clap.

“Are you?”

Athos actually thinks for a bit before answering. “I will be,” he says at last. 

“So will I. And Porthos, and Aramis. We refuse to die.”

“We refuse to die,” Athos agrees quietly, and smiles – _really_ smiles. “That's always a good start.”

**Author's Note:**

> did I use my university credentials to access journal articles about primary blast lung injury? I sure did. does that mean that you should take everything in this as true and accurate? it sure doesn’t.
> 
> I swear I wasn’t going to mention the constantly simmering sexual tension between Athos and d'Artagnan, but it kept happening and eventually I gave up on deleting it. It's there, guys. Right there on the screen.
> 
> I'd like to give three more shout-outs, this time to fics that inspired elements of this one. 
> 
> cherryfeather's [“let it be known that I was worthy”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304859) describes d'Artagnan's feelings about Athos as “puppy-love infatuation,” and I think that's, just, painfully accurate.
> 
> emmram's [“When You Put Your Arms Around Me”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219495) is about Athos and d’Artagnan swapping clothes, allegedly by accident but totally on purpose. I accept this as canon. 
> 
> gaelicspirit's ["War Scars"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847988) discusses the possible development of "we refuse to die" as something of a rallying cry. I thought about that a lot while watching the episode, and while writing this, so check it out!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please feel free to leave any feedback you'd like to.


End file.
